Set You Free
by WaterGhost
Summary: In the aftermath of the truth, an assassin takes an introspective look into her life and relationships.


Good day, everyone! In between writing chapters for my Marimite fanfic, I randomly decided that there simply are not enough Madlax fics out there. So, here is my humble addition in response to that spontaneous thought. It is an introversive look at the character of Limelda Jorg. She is a very hard character to write for; she seems to be an emotionally guarded person, and becomes quite intensely engrossed with Madlax for no apparent reason. Since I don't know too much about her past, I used some artistic license, but I attempted to make it as believable as possible. I hope that I provided a realistic look into her mind, maybe for the purpose of understanding her a little bit better. Maybe this is just a one shot deal, or maybe it will become a series of introspective looks into the various characters in the series. I'm not quite sure yet.

Disclaimer: Yeah. Definitely don't own it.

P.S.- Because of Limelda's military background, I inserted some common military slang. For those who don't what it means, here's a short guide:

RPG- Rocket Propelled Grenade

Fatigues- clothing worn by military personnel for labor or for field duty

CO- Commanding Officer

Court Martial- trial by military tribunal

Happy reading, and please review!

Thanks,

WaterGhost (Sarah)

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-Set You Free-

By WaterGhost

There is a saying.

So many people had quoted it to me, everyone from friends to coworkers. Ironically, I had heard it most often in the Army, where it would turn out to apply most directly.

Ignorance is bliss.

Indeed, there are moments when I regret knowing the truth. Sometimes I feel that the lie had more substance, more reality to it than the life I lead now. But I know that I cannot go back. At this point, I know that I don't want to.

This morning is quiet and still, the sun peaking its blazing head over the still sleeping skyscrapers. It is going to be an unusually hot day. I rise wordlessly, soundlessly, like always, and instinctively put on a pot of water to heat for the morning tea. Drinking tea was a habit I had acquired at the military academy, during long nights of studying and fretting over various useless exams. My living habits had become relatively primitive over the years for various reasons, so after I began my new life I decided to allow more vices into my daily routine. My stomach gives a slight rumble, but I am not even going to attempt breakfast. That I always left to the sleeping girl on the bed.

I would have been lying if I had said I wasn't looking for Madlax that day. After our confrontation, I had walked around in a sort of daze, trying to replay the events as they took place, trying to put the pieces of my life together. I stole an Army jeep and, still in my fatigues, half-heartedly tried to drive out of range of the constant barrage of RPGs that the rebels were sending at the few remaining Government troops in the area. It was by pure luck, or fate, that I ran across Madlax and calmly offered her a ride.

There are things that need to be done today. I need to go shopping, we are low on garlic, tomatoes, and paper towels. My culinary skills may be lacking, but I had decided that I could at least run errands and other such tasks to make myself feel a little more useful. I had never bothered to learn to cook, life in the Guard had taught me how to live on dried foods and Army rations. I never thought I'd have the opportunity to live a more quiet life, I had always planned on staying in the Elite Guard as long as I could.

Madlax had put a stop to that.

The girl makes a small noise in her sleep and turns, one arm outstretched, then gropes about as if trying to find something next to her. I smile inwardly, watch the way her disheveled dark blonde hair falls across her face, and the way her chest rises and falls with each even breath. She's the most innocent when she sleeps, it's too endearing. She really is a beautiful girl. Girl, not woman. She told me, with some air of nonchalance, that she was 17 or 18, but that she wasn't sure. That made me a good 7 or 8 years older than her. I often feel like an old woman next to her, but she was mature beyond her years. Someone in her line of work had to be.

The low whistling of the teapot breaks me from my trance. I drag my gaze away from the sleeping Madlax and prepare two cups of tea as quietly as the clinking cups will allow. A little sugar in Madlax's, plain for me. It was almost second nature now, although it had taken a long time to get used to living with someone, much less the person I had stalked for quite awhile, and the only one who could rival my skills as a soldier. I told myself that it was normal that I felt a little uneasy at first.

Of course, it was by my own choosing that I came to live here with Madlax. At first, it was out of necessity. I was homeless, purposeless, and hunted by the Kingdom Army. I knew that if I was caught, I would be court martialed, and probably put to death by firing squad. Which, come to think of it, would have been okay by me, if I hadn't had found her.

So she directed me back to the city. The entire trip she had worn this happy, carefree little grin, as if someone had just lifted a big weight off of her shoulders, as if she seemed more sure of herself. And when she got out of the jeep, she turned to me, hand on her hip, with the little smile I both hated and loved.

"You want to come in for awhile?"

I was only supposed to stay for a little while, I told myself. Have a drink, perhaps, then leave her to her life. But it didn't turn out that way. We were both so exhausted from the previous events, that we both fell asleep before we could even process what had happened that day.

So I stayed the night, sleeping on the floor despite Madlax's insistence that I sleep on the bed with her. I knew that I couldn't be that close to her, not yet at least. I didn't really feel worthy, to tell you the truth. Even though the ground was painfully hard and I only had a thin blanket and a very flat pillow, it was still better than many of my alternatives. And, whether I wanted to admit it or not, I wanted to be near her.

The odd thing was that she never asked any questions whether or not I was going to stay. It seemed to be implied in her actions and words, though we exchanged very few that first week. We still didn't fully trust each other, even though neither of us had any reason to attempt to kill the other anymore. She probably recognized and appreciated the fact that I was totally lost in this new world, in this new life, that I had no friends, not even an ally, sans her, of course.

With a soft groan, Madlax finally awakens and stretches luxuriously. I always wake up first, she prefers to sleep in. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, then looks at me, with a soft smile.

"Good morning, Limelda." She likes saying my name. When I first told her what it was she was fascinated by it, forming the syllables in her mouth over and over again. I never thought I would be sick of hearing my own name.

"Good morning," I reply softly as I place the steaming teacups on the small wooden table. She sniffs the air appreciatively and slides out of bed.

"Breakfast time," she pipes up cheerily, pulling out a pan and a few eggs from our small refrigerator. "Scrambled, right?"

"Yeah," I reply, although I know I don't have to. She already knows how I like my eggs. She already knows a lot about me.

We eat breakfast in a comfortable silence. As usual, the food is good, an egg and some beautifully sliced fresh fruit from the market, along with the tea I made earlier. She has superb cooking skills for a girl her age, though her strength had to be in her pasta, of course.

"So," she asks as I do the dishes, "what are we going to do today?"

"I'll go to the market today," I say, keeping my eyes focused on the plates and pans in the sink.Myeyes are drawn to the spotnext to the sink where my fake ID card rests. Madlax had acquired it for me a few weeks into my stay. I had told her of what I had done after she had told me the truth about the war, and one day she came back from a job with the plastic card in hand.

"You should probably not advertise who you are anymore, huh?" she had said wryly.

It was true. Carrying around my 'Gazth-Sonika Elite Guard' verification badge probably wasn't the best way to keep a low profile after I had murdered my own CO. I had managed to get away with keeping my identity private for the time being, but my luck probably wouldn't last forever. The fake ID, hopefully, would provide me with a small time frame of peace, or maybe even until this terrible war was over.

"Okay," I hear from behind me. "Then what?"

What else did I need to do today? I run through a quick checklist in my head, tilt my head in bewilderment.

She sees my confusion, and laughs lightly. "I see. I have an idea. Let's go out for dinner tonight, hmm?"

Out for dinner? The request was odd, but then again, I really shouldn't be surprised at her spontaneity. But we'd always eaten meals inside the small apartment, apart from that first day when we'd stopped at a little Inn on the way back into the city for (what else) pasta.

"I need to at least expose you to some culture, Limelda. You don't really get out much."

It wasn't an insult, I recognized, merely truth. When I had walked in her door, the only possessions I had were my rifle, pistol, a few changes of clothes (all army issue), a little dried Army food, and the disk that she and Vanessa Rene had given to me.

Vanessa Rene.

It wasn't until later that I had found out that the bullet from my gun had killed her, and even later before Madlax would admit how much it hurt her to lose the woman. At the time, I didn't understand. She didn't have any combat skills; she was merely a pest in the way of my destruction of Madlax. But when the time came, she picked up a gun and shot at me, the best sniper in the Elite Guard, even though she might have known it could mean her own destruction. Madlax had cared for her. And, whether I would admit it or not, I was jealous of her. But despite this, I couldn't help feel a little guilt for her death.

I had even apologized to Madlax.

"Madlax, I'm sorry about that woman. The one who you were protecting."

I saw the faintest semblance of tears form in the corners of her eyes.

"You've got it all wrong. She was protecting me."

Those were the only words we had exchanged on the subject. I took it as a hint that she wasn't ready to talk about her relationship with Vanessa, and it was never brought up again. Nevertheless, I still felt guilty.

I look up to see Madlax giving me an amused grin.

"Daydreaming?"

I attempt a small smile. "Dinner sounds okay. I don't have any other clothes than my fatigues, though."

She waves a hand in dismissal. "Nonsense. You'll wear one of my dresses. We'll just be royalty and splurge tonight."

What could I say besides anything in the affirmative?

"Tonight, then," she points one well trained trigger finger at me, "don't forget," and heads towards the bathroom, presumably for her long daily shower.

I change into a tank top and regular fatigue pants, and with one long look at the bathroom door, head out for the day.

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The market is bustling with activity despite the intense heat that barrages the city streets. I stroll around the many booths quietly, looking for the best prices in order to alleviate some of the pressure on our limited budget. Madlax had been living comfortably with the money from her assignments from the mysterious 'Three Speed', but in the past month she had decided to take a short hiatus from her jobs. And with two people to feed instead of one, bargain shopping had become somewhat of a necessity.

I buy the garlic and tomatoes from a fresh vegetable stand with reasonable prices, and the paper towels from a nearby convenience store. Madlax's unfathomable affinity for pasta was also something that I had to get used to. Not that I minded, she made wonderful pasta, but after the first three weeks of living with her I realized that we would be having the dish nearly every night. I don't say anything about it, I merely stock the small apartment with the groceries to keep making it.

I stroll the market booths and the adjacent shops, soak in the atmosphere the bustling city streets have to offer. Never in my whole life have I been able to sit back and enjoy the simple things that life has to offer. Before, my life was wrapped up in my job, I was obsessed with being the best. I realize now that some kind of primal blood lust was partially to blame, but I had nonetheless chosen that path myself. When I had first moved in with Madlax, it was the younger girl who took to having a roommate easier than I did. She seemed eager to escape from her lonely lifestyle, and she dragged me into conversations about everything under the sun, even though I was obviously not in the mood for talking.

She wanted to know about my past. It was really nothing special, my parents were killed in the Civil War and I thus applied to the Military Academy as soon as I graduated from high school. There, I discovered and honed my natural talents as a sniper. I was patient, bloodthirsty, remorseless, the perfect candidate, and was immediately drafted into the Elite Guard as soon as I left the Academy. Those years seem to run together now, and whenever I dare look back into the mirror that reflects my bloody mask I can see the day and night differences between me now, and me then.

I told her all these things, and she told me of Margaret Burton, a book called the Secondary, and the ruthless Friday Monday, leader of the infamous Enfant. In truth, I didn't really understand all of the details, just the overwhelming sense that my personal revelations, my struggles, were merely a sidebar in the large-scale trials that Madlax had survived. When we talked together, though, she never made it sound that way. She was too generous, too kind with me.

For I was a monster.

I often tell her that she should have killed me when she had the chance, maybe to bait her, but she never responds to it. I even come out and ask it every once in awhile, but I'm afraid what the answer will be. Why didn't you kill me, Madlax?

By all rights, I should be dead. How many times had I tried to kill her, in my psychotic obsessive blind rage, only to be rebuffed by her time and time again? She had proved then, and now, to be everlastingly patient with me.

I have lost myself in my thoughts and the pleasant buzzing of conversations and activity around me. But the day has gotten hotter as the sun begins to sink in the sky, and a few droplets of sweat bead on my forehead as I walk the streets back to the apartment, plastering a few strands of hair to it. I don't really know why I started wearing my hair down; it often gets in my way, and is uncomfortable on hot days like this. Maybe the new version of me wears her hair down. I'm really not quite sure.

I make my way back from the market, groceries on my arms and a slight sunburn forming on my cheeks. As I open the door and feel the cool dark atmosphere of the apartment on my flushed skin, I realize how incredibly lucky I am. To be alive and (relatively) unharmed. To be here, with her. Just to be at all.

She is lounging on the couch, reading a book and blaring Bizet's "Carmen" from the CD player we had bought a few weeks ago. She had never attended a real school in her life, and told me that she didn't plan on doing so now. But for some reason I felt the need to tangle myself in her affairs, encouraging her to take up any constructive hobbies she could find. She had taken particularly to reading, and especially to old operas, like Puccini, Bizet, and Verdi. Music was another subject, like fashion and cooking, that I found myself completely inept in, but I had grown to like listening to opera, much to my surprise.

Madlax senses my presence, and sets down her book.

"Welcome back."

"Thanks," I reply tonelessly, setting the bags on the table and stretching my arms.

Her expression is hard to read, but she speaks quickly.

"Go get showered and ready. I left the dress in the bathroom."

I nod and obey her silently, plodding silently into the bathroom, reaching out to flick the light switch lazily. It's the red dress that she has folded neatly and left on the counter. I don't hold back a smile as I hold the dress in front of me. It should fit.

I twist the handles on the shower and let the water cascade down into the empty tub, giving the water heater a chance to warm up. I remove my clothes methodically, and slide into the warm water with a contented sigh. I stand naked beneath the shower's warm, thundering spray, luxuriating in the steamy heat that plasters my long black hair to my back and flushes my pale skin to an even darker shade of pink. Showering naked in the same place that Madlax did was a little unnerving at first, but I'd come to get used to it. For every moment around her made my stomach do little flips.

I wouldn't deny being in love with her. The girl had reshaped my entire life. Everything I had stood for, fought for, was shattered by her kindness.

I didn't deny it, even when I was trying to kill her. She became ever consuming in my thoughts, I saw her face, her quirky smile, in my dreams. I imagined her smooth, fluid movements from when we had battled, the light showing off her slim, muscled body. At first, I had seen her as a challenge. Then, as a rival. Then, as my destroyer.

It was odd, how our relationship developed. Madlax had always been a little more open with her feelings than I had, pursuing friendly conversations with me, then talking with greater and greater intimacy, from the war, to our lives. No one, not even Carrossea, had bothered to get to know me, wanted to know who I was underneath. I had already told the younger girl everything there was to know about me, despite my vain attempts to keep my life and emotions a secret from the world around me.

I even became used to the small touches that Madlax liked to make, a hand on the shoulder, small touches on the cheek, and the like. Casual contact was new for me as well, though I was less jumpy now than I had been. Before long, I knew that the fixation I had on the beautiful girl was more than just morbid curiosity.

Being in love with a girl didn't bother so much as surprise me. I had never been too worried about my sexuality. Since I could lose my life every single day on the job, I had learned to trust my instincts and forgo any qualms about societal issues concerning my sexual behavior. I had never really been in love, just lust, and I had never even entertained the idea of being in a relationship with another woman. With that attitude to guide me in my little existent but turbulent personal life, I had a series of lovers, both men and women, both military and civilian, the most recent, of course, being Carrossea Doon.

When I learned from Madlax that he was dead, I wasn't devastated. I wasn't even really sad. Although it makes me appear heartless, I could not feel pity for the man. He had used me for his own selfish wants, for his own personal gain. In Carrossea I thought I had found a kindred soul, someone who could understand my ambitious nature. In a way, he needed me, needed my skills as a sniper and as a soldier and it felt good to be needed by another, so we fell into business, then into bed. I realized that I could have seen his betrayal in the way he treated me. When we were around one another, his actions, his works, even our sex, was too mechanical for my liking. There was no passion in anything he did. But I was blinded by him, and then by my own psychotic obsession with killing Madlax.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

I kind of wished I had killed him when I had gotten the chance, but when Madlax explained his role in Enfant's plot, I felt a kind of pity beneath my anger. Carrossea was dead. Like so many, many others, fathers, sons, brothers, mothers, daughters, all killed by the needless and senseless violence. I had taken many lives, like Madlax had. She had the power to take life, but also to give it back.

But why me? Why did Madlax choose to spare me, when so many others that she had killed deserved their lives more than I did.

With the question still ringing in my mind, I go through the familiar routine of washing my hair and body, rinsing it off beneath the soothing spray of the water. The hissing from the shower ends suddenly as I turn the knobs back to their original positions, then towel off methodically, trying to squeeze as much water from my hair as I can. Out of pure habit, I take the hair tie around my wrist and pull the partially dried hair into a tight bun.

The dress fits, for the most part. Madlax's breasts seem to be a bit larger than mine, which surprisingly enough makes me blush a little bit. So the chest is a bit loose, and the skirt is a bit long, but otherwise, I can maneuver in the thing without killing myself. In truth, I haven't worn a true dress since my senior prom, and the sheer amount of exposed skin is startling to me.

I take a few moments to calm my nerves and shaking hands before I step out of the bathroom to reveal myself to Madlax.

She looks utterly gorgeous in the white dress I know so well. Like an angel.

Madlax always seems to be well aware of the extents of her sexual appeal. She always seemed comfortable in the long, revealing dresses that she sometimes wore, and the shorts that showed off a pair of perfectly sculpted legs. She stands before me confidently, the dress adorning her well-muscled slim young body. I wish I could feel as confident in the red dress, but formal wear isn't really my fashion strength. I feel very exposed, almost naked, and Madlax seems to notice this.

"Ow ow!" she catcalls at me with an amused, and almost lecherous, gleam in her eye.

I cross my arms awkwardly, only allowing a small 'hmm' to emit from my mouth.

She laughs, plants one hand on her hip. "Limelda, you sexy beast. We're going to have half the city wanting us tonight!"

I don't want half the city to want me. I only want you to want me. But of course, I can't say that out loud.

I duck my head nervously.

Madlax closes the few feet between us with a few long strides and a quiet chuckle. As she draws closer, I feel evenless confident in myself. I feel something jerk behind my navel as she lays a soft hand on the base of my neck.

"Come on, Limelda," she whispers in my ear, her lips dangerously close to my face, "wear your hair down."

With that, she pulls the tie out of my hair with a simple tug and my hair tumbles down my back. Normally, I'd be cold with her for such a blatant and intentionalinvasion of my personal space, but now, the sensation of her hand on my skin, her whispers in my ear, I cannot say anything.

"Hmmm." I count the seconds that tick by as her hand remains on my neck.

"Okay then," she finally walks over to the door and opens it. "Let's go."

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We take a cab into the downtown arts district. This area of the city has really begun to bloom since the intensity of the war began to wane. Museums are reopening, art galleries are attracting new talent, high scale shops and restaurants are beginning to cater to the rising middle class Gazth-Sonika now boasts. As a native of the area, it's really amazing to see. Despite the threats of violence that still plague the area, the world decides to move on.

In truth, the people of Gazth-Sonika have grown weary of the war, the pointless and needless bloodshed that the government and rebel groups are inflicting on each other. After twelve long years of civil war the people have turned their attention away from the two quarrelling groups. And now that Bookwald's activities have been outed to the press, and Enfant's ranks are in disarray (thanks solely to Madlax's efforts), the intelligence and financial support that had been fueling the war had almost stopped altogether. The intensity of the fighting began to decrease at a rapid rate. Sure, there were still a few skirmishes on the city's outskirts, and a few battles in the villages or the jungle, but they were becoming few and far between. It might be another couple of years, but eventually both sides would lose heart, and come to some pointless political agreement. What did they have to fight for anymore? Only lies. The documentation really didn't matter. The people would do all the work.

I am proud of my country. Someday, we will rise up from this awful war. The same fighting spirit that carried us in war will fuel our attempts at peace. Because we now know the truth.

Although my involvement in the war has long since passed, I know that I will always be in danger. I am a murderer. A deserter. But I don't regret killing when I needed to, nor quitting my lifelong vocation as a soldier. After I learned the truth, there was no point in continuing to follow the lies. I couldn't do it. And if that makes me a target, then so be it.

I'm not afraid of dying.

Madlax is unusually quiet tonight. Normally she would grill me on my day, or chatter about her latest book. Tonight, she sits silent and directs the cab to an Italian restaurant downtown. It is a beautiful little basement place, soft lit ambience and authentically decorated. I wonder how long it has been since I've eaten at a place like this.

The waiter directs us to a small booth tucked in one corner to allow for privacy. He's a thin, nerdy looking boy, probably a college student. Madlax is amused as he stumbles over his rehearsed lines about the night's specials and the in season wines. Was her dress always that low cut? I'd only noticed it now, and began blushing as a result. Damn it.

The boy takes our orders and runs off with a relieved sigh. Madlax turns her attention back to me.

"Limelda, is it hot in here?"

I touch my fingers to my blushing cheeks, feeling them redden even further at Madlax's sudden attention to me.

"I just got a little sun today," I lie, as convincingly as possible.

She nods, the smirk on her face evident. "Yeah, it was really hot today, wasn't it?"

"Hmm," is all I can reply.

We make small talk as we wait for our orders. We talk about the possibility of her taking jobs from 'Three Speed' once again, about the possibility of me going back to work. In all honesty, I have no idea what I would do; the best skill I'd ever possessed was fighting. It wasn't that I wasn't intelligent, that wasn't the problem, but I have little patience for blasé jobs, and besides, my identity is still at risk. At this point, I'm mindlessly rambling while Madlax looks on in amusement, then reminds me that we can deal with that later. We'd had this conversation before.

After a few minutes of talking, our bumbling waiter brings out our food. Madlax has the Shrimp Scampi with Fettuccini (of course), and I have the Roast Lamb in a Marsala sauce. We even order a bottle of wine. Wine, at least, I can fake my way through. Many meetings with military superiors (who had much more lavish lifestyles than I'd ever get, to my disgust), had taught me the basics of choosing a decent bottle of wine. I choose a well-aged bottle of Syrah from Nafrece, of all places. The cost of it must be staggering, but my protests of the monetary value are cut short with a small wave from Madlax.

"We're royalty tonight, remember?"

The food, of course, is wonderful with a wonderful price tag to go with it. But I enjoy every bite, along with the comfortable quiet silence that Madlax and I share throughout the meal.

After we've paid for the food, I realize that between us we've consumed the whole bottle of wine. I'd never had too much alcohol in my life, but I can already feel a pleasant buzzing in my veins, warmth spreading through my whole body. Madlax emits a small hiccup.

"Too much wine," I note. At least I don't sound drunk.

She laughs and grabs my hand. "Come on."

I manage to disentangle my hand from hers when we emerge from the restaurant enter the balmy night air. It has cooled down now that the sun has set, but the concrete streets and buildings still radiate the daytime heat. Fortunately, Madlax doesn't notice my blushing cheeks or nervous mannerisms. I haven't blushed since I was in grade school. Even with all the lovers I'd had, I'd never blushed. It was an odd, disconcerting feeling.

Or maybe it was just the wine.

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Back in the apartment, I lounge on the couch lazily, listening to Puccini's 'Turandot' while massaging my slightly aching feet. Because Madlax over-tipped our less than stellar waiter, we didn't have enough money for a cab ride home. I normally wouldn't mind, but walking in those shoes had become considerably more difficult since I had consumed so much wine. I allowed Madlax to hold my arm as we stumbled to the apartment, more worried about not breaking my neck rather than maintaining my cool demeanor.

It doesn't make sense, her letting me stay here. Sometimes I wonder if she would rather have Margaret Burton here with her, instead of me. Though I do remember Madlax telling me that she knew having her around would be painful for Margaret. She always spoke the girl's name with a high degree of reverence, handling it as a precious antique that could break if you treated it too harshly. For if I understood correctly, Margaret had essentially been the one that had given Madlax her life. I still didn't understand it all, but I saw how much the girl meant to Madlax.

When I took the time to see the war, and Madlax's struggles through her eyes, the world shifted. In essence, I saw myself as nothing more than a thorn, a pest with a personal vendetta and way too much firepower.

Why had I been so obsessed with killing her? I couldn't even dream of such a thing now. Maybe she was too much like me. Maybe I was angry that she had shattered everything I had known. Maybe I saw too much of my focus, my determination, in her eyes when I stared into them.

And yet, here I was. Still alive. I don't want to kill her anymore; I want to protect her. Maybe this was how Vanessa Rene felt. For a second, I feel a connection with the deceased woman.

Not that she needed any of my protection. Madlax had time and time again proven her combat skills far superior to my own, but it wasn't just that. I wanted to protect that slight innocent gleam in her eye, the playful laugh that she still let out in my presence. Though an incorrigible flirt, I doubt the girl had ever been in a real relationship, or had as many lovers as I had. I wanted to keep her spirit, not just her body, alive.

It was a feeling that I had never experienced. Sure, I had wanted to protect Carrossea, but that was only in the purely physical sense, the man needed my gun and my gun only. My soldier's prowess gave me a sort of untouchable power over him. I still feel bitter about his sexual conquest of me, but that was all in the past.

As 'Turandot' nears the middle of the second act, I look around for Madlax. She had gone up to the roof quite a few minutes ago to talk to the mysterious 'Three Speed', but hadn't come back down. Flipping the shoes away from the couch, I head up to the roof to see what she is doing.

The wind on my bare shoulders reminds me that I'm still in the dress, and I wrap my arms around myself to ward off the goosebumps that threaten to rise on my skin.

She still has the white dress on, looking out at the neon-lit wonder of the city's night skyline. It was an activity that she engaged in often, especially from this roof, especially while alone. I make my way as quietly as I can towards her, stopping a few feet short. I watch her beautiful disheveled blonde hair blow in the breeze, admire the curves that the dress shows off. She has the body of a real woman, as compared to my thinner, boyish form. She must notice my presence, though. I know that she is keenly aware of me, she told me once that she could sense me even before we met face to face. It was still a bit unnerving, but more comforting now.

"Hi." As I suspected.

"Did you contact Three Speed?" I ask, my voice dropping low unintentionally.

"Yeah," she replies. "Nothing worth troubling myself over. I'll wait for something better."

I don't respond, just watch her carefully. It's odd, how we can say so little to each other and yet understand one another so well. Is it fate? I don't think it is. We are all here as a result of choices we have made. I choose to accept the truth, just like she chooses to live despite her ambiguous identity. We make our choices, and live with the consequences. In the end, I didn't choose the lie. I chose her.

First, she was my challenge. Then, she was my rival. Then, my destroyer. Now, she was my savior.

"Madlax?"

I see her head turn slightly towards me, waiting for my words.

"Thank you."

She shakes her head. I can see a smile forming on her profile.

"No, Limelda. Thank you."

She turns on her heel, and smiles a full smile, which I return. She follows me inside.

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Inside the apartment, I make another pot of tea, non-caffinated, to counter the effects of the wine.

"You're funny when you're drunk," Madlax tells me as I sip the beverage.

I purse my lips. "I was not drunk."

She laughs. "Oh please. Let me demonstrate."

Madlax then proceeds to get up and stagger about the kitchen in mocking fashion, trying to mimic my voice pattern.

"Pardon me," she tells the stove. "Excuse me," she slurs to the sink. My eyes widen in amusement.

She laughs more easily these days. Maybe that means that our wounds, the ones you can't see, are beginning to heal. I hope so.

"Hey," I call in mock indignation, and throw a crumpled napkin at her. She bats it away, laughing a deep and radiant laugh, so that I can't help but laugh along with her.

We get ready for bed in routine fashion and savor the powerful tones of Calaf's aria 'Nessun Dorma' at the end of the second act of 'Turandot'. This is my favorite part of the whole opera. I even pause brushing my teeth to listen to the final powerful notes. Madlax always closes her eyes during this part.

Then, nightly preparations completed, we head towards the only bed in the apartment. I switch off the CD player.

I can remember to the detail the first night we slept in the same bed. The weeks of sleeping on the hard wooden floor had produced aching muscles, and became unbearable. So I finally gave in to Madlax's gentle urgings, and carefully settled my sore body on the very edge of the bed, my back to her, as far away from her as I could. It had taken hours for me to get to sleep that night, the close proximity of her body to mine was too much to handle. I think it was only from utter exhaustion that at last I drifted off to sleep. I had never slept so well in my life before that night.

After the first night, it became easier. We even began to wake touching backs, or I woke to find her arm draped across my stomach as if she was hugging some doll. And finally one night in her sleep Madlax had wrapped an arm around me, and despite the fact I was still awake I did not push her away. I found that I didn't want to.

So tonight, like the night before, and many nights before that, we will climb into bed together. Maybe tonight, I will be the brave one and hug her body to my own instead of waiting for her touch.

And maybe, one of these days I'll be able to tell her that I love her.

We might die any day, either one of us. But for now, if only for a little while, if we can make each other feel a little less lonely, then all the bloodshed, tears, and pain, it was all worth it.

Ignorance is bliss, eh?

I know now that despite the legitimacy of the words, it is something I simply won't accept . Ignorance may be bliss, yes.

But the truth will set you free.

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Note: If you read my Marimite fic, you could probably tell that I have a real affinity for Puccini's 'Turandot'. So sue me. Hahaha. I don't know what made me think that the two women would listen to opera, but hey, I can dream. And, thanks to for telling me what wine works with what food. I heart the Food Network.

Review! Please? Pretty please?

Thanks for reading!


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